Wednesday, October 24, 2012

A Dead Friend's Hand

gentle as a dead friend's hand
resting on my shoulder
this autumn sunshine


Most Americans' first response to this, I suspect, would be "creepy." Zombie pal taps you on the shoulder. In October, no less (this is from my calendar for yesterday).

Why fear such a thing? Why suppose that death transforms a friend into something that seeks our harm? Or is it death itself we fear? Or the physical manifestations of it-- certainly it's unpleasant, viscerally unpleasant, to imagine a rotting corpse sitting beside oneself. Yet surely a less corporeal visit, a sense of presence, would console rather than horrify?


I gather quinces,
cut peonies, a bouquet
for a dead friend's hand.

Available! High-Voltage Lines, Knocking from Inside

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